


pieces left to rust

by naysayersmoray



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Androids, Assisted Suicide, Attempted Murder, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Clockwork - Freeform, Death, F/M, Illustrations, Mild Gore, Murder, Muteness, POV Third Person, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:49:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29284062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naysayersmoray/pseuds/naysayersmoray
Summary: He finds her in a scrapyard.
Relationships: Khada Jhin/Orianna Reveck
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

He finds her in a scrapyard. Not the most enticing place in the world, but he's dangerously low on ammunition that he has to make himself. He picks through stray bits of metal and magic until something catches his eye - a hand, crafted to resemble a human one as closely as possible. There is nothing unusual about that save for the craftsmanship - many failed projects in Piltover that don't make it to the exhibitions of technological genius end up discarded, stripped for parts and left to rust. Many of these projects are robotic.  
There is old crusted blood on the metal fingers.  
He follows the unusual metal - several sheets of it that look like light armour, a prosthetic maybe? Connecting the arm to the human body at the shoulder?  
There are more pieces. Definitely a woman's armour - or meant for a robot in the likeness of a woman.  
As the Sun paints the top edges of the old landfill golden, he finds the head and sits there in the dust, studying the curves of brows and lips of a caved-in skull, the plating around one eye and half her jaw missing. Sits there beside a mostly assembled metal body of a person - he tries to think of her as a thing, but there is something in the deliberate hand of the maker that says they wanted her to look alive.  
He tries to force himself up, to shake this trance and search for something more useful than... than...  
The one undamaged eye lights up and turns toward him in the socket, the movement as admirable in artistry as it is unnerving. The clockwork throat attached to the skull works uselessly. The jaw has rusted shut.  
There is nothing in it that should give it life. Besides, well, life. Some strange soul with the body of a doll.  
She doesn't have a voice to beg for help. Most of her parts are right there, ready to be reassembled. He realizes he'd made a list of the missing ones.  
No. Come on. No. Get up. You have business here. You don't have the time for -  
An exquisitely designed hand, ripped off at the wrist, no wires connecting it to anything else, flops at his side.  
He lets out a long breath before he takes her hand, perches the head on the shoulder rest for his gun and sets out in search of suitable replacement parts. He'll need a neck first, this is just uncanny.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He spends days fitting the broken pieces together.

In his workshop, the artist and craftsman who will always choose his own name for himself, thank you very much, brings up a simplistic mannequin support rest. A lot of old abandoned projects go into it, starting with shoulder rests and crossbows he used to fire into the same target as Whisper, just to test the speed and accuracy when compared to sheer distance. The wooden and metal support beams seem to come from all parts of the workshop, converging in the middle and adorning the structure until he can start to place the doll into them, securing pieces in place so he can work on the joints. The masterwork on the doll is astounding, even broken and dismantled as she was when he found her. He puts on an old record of a waltz to help him focus, but to his surprise, the doll's disconnected torso starts to spin widely to the music, and he has to silence the gramophone. The spinning stops immediately.  
The windup mechanism, a golden key, is melded into her armor on the back. It should only be able to turn on its own and never be removed. He shrugs, polishes the metal and oils the hinges.  
The work is slow, but fulfilling in a way, like hitting the fourth shot is fulfilling, like constructing another grenade while following his own schematics from memory is fulfilling. He doesn't leave the workshop, dutifully eating his exact share of dried meat and fruit in the smallish kitchen space, always washing both his hands and carefully checking the mechanisms on the metal one. He sleeps his exact share, aware of the glow that is never extinguished in the eyes of the doll. Visible only in the low light, everything hextech about her lights up blue, the glow never fading and seemingly getting brighter from day to day.  
She is a weapon, he realizes after a few close calls with the blades in her skirt.  
He's never been more fascinated.  
Even though her body is filled out, all necessary parts replaced, her face and jaw and neck and voice box oiled and repaired, her legs replaced almost entirely with lighter metals to let her walk as freely as she pleases, she doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Oh, what he would give to know the name of the artist! He'd mount his hands on the wall, as if holding his own gun in a careful grasp.  
Several parts don't fit her, though they were clearly made from the same metal, and among them he finds a rare treasure - a beating hextech heart, embedded into the clockwork of what he has initially assumed was her chest. But it's almost a separate entity. Without the obvious frame of a body trying to assemble this mystery is a task that stumps him until he starts aimlessly fitting the pieces together. Like solving a puzzle without seeing the big picture - these edges match, there is welding there and old paint there. It's a metal ball, too big to be a head and too strange to be a torso, and as he proudly, with a click, fits in the last piece into the main body of it, there is a loud and clear inhale from the doll. Her head is fixed in place for the moment, and the entire structure shudders when she tries to tear out of it.  
\- Hold still! I have put a lot of work into you and would rather like it if you did not let it go to waste!  
The doll freezes. It looks more natural than it would have been in a human - the parts visible through the plating are whirring and sparking off with the unbalanced potential and electric blue glow of the hextech mechanisms, but the casing of the body is deathly still. It is gorgeous.  
\- Now, though I do love to have your attention, you will be staying right where you are while I finish working on your weapon, as it clearly holds your heart within. Oh what beauty though!  
There are enough blades left to fit into and around the ball clearly, and he replaces the flurry of missing ones with shrapnel and fine cleaning tools until the thing is complete. The light within echoes from the doll, almost as if they were talking to each other. As if they were made for each other, or as parts of one whole.  
He strides around her, admiring his own handiwork and setting the ball on a small chair.  
\- Now, there are still repairs to be made, but you should be stable enough to stand on your own.  
He snaps the supporting cuffs and handles off one by one, until the doll crumbles forward into his arms. He can't help but gasp at his own mastery as the plating holds her safely together while she tries to stand. She pushes past him rather unkindly to gather up the ball in her arms and sit with it right in the middle of the floor littered with strands of twine, chunks of runes and metal tidbits that didn't make it into the final product. When had he made such a mess? What day was it?  
The doll finally raises her face towards him, and the graceful lines of it that he has tried his best to replicate on the missing half, mirror the steady blue glow of her eyes. She cradles the strange ball-like apparatus like her own child, which, he supposes, is somewhat accurate in regards to what it holds within.  
\- A word of gratitude would be appropriate.  
She snaps her head to the side and back, and he sees the mechanisms in her open throat fit back together and come alive. Her first attempt at speech is a jumble of sound, artificial and wrong, her second a shrill screech. Then finally, the whole mess resolves itself into words. Her voice is much like her craftsmanship - synthesized most likely from recordings of birds and sounds of whirring machinery.  
\- Why did you save me?  
\- A brief fancy, if I must admit. As one will sometimes wish to straighten the neckties of others, to rebuild an abandoned castle, to dig into the clockwork of the world.  
\- I have no means of repaying this debt.  
Her voice is musical and metallic, smooth and rough at the same time. Her face doesn't move as she speaks, but in her movements he can read unease and fear.  
\- Well, are you in a particular hurry to leave?  
\- ...no? I have no memory of what brought me to that landfill. My memory opens with your mask peering down at me, obscuring the dawning light. I remember my name, and I give it as a beginning of my thanks. It's Orianna. Will you repay me with the same?  
\- Ah, a true artist never reveals his secrets. My stage name is Khada Jhin, known as the Virtuoso in certain circles.  
Orianna tilts her head curiously. It is so strange to put a name to her after maybe a week of not speaking out loud himself and addressing everything around him namelessly. It's a strange impulse - to stroll around showing her every brush and weapon and boasting their names and purposes.  
\- Sir Khada...  
\- I prefer Jhin, but would not be opposed to a newer title.  
\- How can I begin to repay you for all your trouble?  
He remembers the clichéed lines between young maidens and their saviours with distaste.  
\- You seem to be a weapon. I have never been opposed to taking in stray murder machines. I have at some point acquired and fixed up a tank. How do you feel, Lady Orianna, about putting those blades of yours to use?  
Her smile is a movement of the clockwork throat and a lingering blue flush spreading on her cheeks.  
\- Depends on the use.  
\- Oh combat is versatile, and your support would aid me greatly, I'm sure.  
\- Then yes.  
The reply staggers him still.  
\- Jhin. I will serve as your weapon until you learn to use me like a sword, like a gun, until you learn how I came to be. I wonder where I was going when I ended up.. assaulted. I wonder, but I seem to have temporarily blocked it from my memory. I am no saint, no priest, no law abider. None would want to remember pain. I will stay with you for a while, if you will make me part of your arsenal.  
\- Studio!  
\- Carnival mockery.  
\- Studio!  
\- Workshop.  
\- OriANNA- do you have a last name, since you were definitely a singular enough project for the authors to engrave "Reveck" on everything they could?  
\- I do not know. Do I? I have a hard time remembering. I might be an old god cast down from heaven. I might be his angel. I might be someone else’s wife or daughter or a passing fancy. But I believe I can find out – with your help, Jhin.  
\- As you wish. We’ll start with this “Reveck”, though first you have a small task I would like you to perform.  
\- Of course. What is it?  
\- Clean up a bit. Your repairs have taken rather a toll on me, so I would prefer a few hours of peaceful sleep to clanging around picking up and sorting dust from gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It continues.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trial and error, as they say

The first time Orianna comes with a complaint, it’s less of a shock and more of am unpleasant, but inevitable fact. She comes to him with her head bowed.  
\- Jhin.  
\- What is it?  
\- You fixed me wrong. My torso is meant to spin at 360, centering the balance in my legs is an incorrect, if ingenious, solution. I can walk rather normally, but I can scarcely stand on one leg. You fixed me wrong and this is wrong. Please don’t take me apart.  
The last part of the request gets stuck on a loop as she twitches her head to the side with every repeat. You fixed me wrong, please don’t take me apart. I feel wrong, I can barely walk, please don’t take me apart.  
She sits down on a small chair as if devoid of any strength. Her skirt is put away for a time, being studied carefully and repurposed for use as a weapon. What is left is the body of a metal mannequin, and what comes with it is the feeling of complete focus when being presented with a solvable problem.  
\- You fixed me wrong.  
\- Let’s try again.  
\- Don’t deactivate me.  
\- Wouldn’t you feel pain?  
\- No.  
The process is much less arduous than in the previous days. It’s the small matter of removing certain plates and connecting beams until her body can be split in half at the waist. Reattaching the spine until she is completely centered is trial and error, but they succeed. It’s strange to work with directions, not having complete control over every action. Though this creature, Orianna, is completely at his mercy, her presence feels much larger – contrite and animated, even playful.  
\- Now, I think.  
He detaches her from the clamps and she stands on her own, only supporting herself on his shoulders for a second. When she walks to the middle of the room, the difference is obvious – the barely connected halves allow the torso to spin in a compete circle, and the balance in her legs allows her to raise them individually to touch the back of her own head with the sole of a copper heel.  
Orianna spins and spins, like a ballerina. Faster and faster, inhuman, with the joyous sound of clockwork filling the room. She cracks the heels together on the floor and turns towards Jhin, spreading her arms and bowing in much the same way as he does after a successful performance.  
\- Thank you, thank you!  
They tinker with her skirt until it is balanced accordingly, they tinker with the ball until it flies up into the air on its own and Orianna moves is effortlessly with spoken commands or simply by moving her arms, pointing for attack and movement. The ball speeds towards Jhin, and he closes his eyes behind the mask. Nothing happens, except for warmth that surrounds him – not that of a body, but that of warming machinery. The ball is next to him, spinning like an overeager puppy, and there is a magical field that holds in the air for twenty or so seconds. As magic is a reflection of the caster, the field is streaked through with the ribs of its supports. It’s gorgeous. And it’s a weapon, like everything about her.  
\- Why Lady Orianna, you might prove to be of use in battle!  
The magic produces rather short-range throwing gears and metal blades that all dissipate after the attack is made. The hextech core within the ball whirrs with recognition, and the ball speeds towards Jhin himself at the earliest opportunity, to orbit him as a defense, seemingly enhancing every bullet fired. Blasted magic. But useful and graceful, unlike the magic he had worked with before. Jhin shudders to remember the pixie, or the nymph, or the singer. Orianna is…  
Different.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the pieces are back in their proper places, there is space for certain truths.

It is much harder than it should be to set this marvelous creature down at a bench and tell her “I kill people”.  
For the great Work, for the Art.  
“I kill people. I saved you and restored you to life and function, I sat in the dirt of a dusty, rotten graveyard of machines searching for your parts, and I kill people in the name of my Work without remorse and with unflinching purpose. I find weak spots and I strike. One, two, three and FOUR as blood spills on the great canvas of the world.”  
Orianna waits for him to speak, patiently or coldly, having tilted her head and frozen in that position.  
\- Orianna, do you understand what my work entails?  
She tilts her neck to a more normal human position. Turns her head to view the sides of the room. There are guns, under- and over- constructed, some never used, there is a constantly replenished slew of grenades. There are knives sitting next to brushes. Khada Jhin, strangely aware for a minute of his constructed name, his overly lavish expenses that all go towards his weapons and his goals, of his own face behind the mask, the expression of which he cannot begin to fathom, sits still, watching the way wires and gears turn in Orianna’s throat while her chin is tilted away.  
When she faces him again, the lights in her eyes are no brighter nor dimmer than before.  
\- Do you mean to insult my intelligence?  
\- What.  
\- What kind of idiot would I have to be not to see weapons and trophies? It is work like any other, performed with pride. To you, it is art.  
It is as if a great weight, some pointless, unseen dread has been taken away with a cold metal hand.  
\- What do you think?  
\- How would I know? Your tools are beautifully and meticulously constructed, yet I have not seen a finished piece of work, and I have not seen you create it.  
Her next words make him drop the array of small glass lenses he had been arranging in hopes of making a better scope.  
\- I would like to see your show, Jhin.  
It is not because his hands shook. Khada four times damned Jhin was a professional. A compliment from a soulless heartless doll did not make his hands shake.  
The lenses, arranged in a useless order, are held up by the rings of the scope, and do not break when the unfinished construction hits the floor. Orianna bends at the waist, and bends, like no human or otherwise dancer can, her spine shifting with a musically perfect order of small clicks, and brings the scope back into his own hands, not holding it up politely, but placing it with perfect care, so precise it makes no sound when metal hits metal.  
Then she settles back next to him, making no attempt to move from the bench, slowly tilting her head towards the ceiling. Speaking to her has become easy.  
\- Do you enjoy art?  
\- I enjoy pieces that are meant to fit together and move without a hitch. I believe I would not enjoy murder as such, yet the way you think of it makes it sound… how would you describe it? Beautiful? Do you enjoy your own art, Jhin?  
\- I live for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING WARNING WARNING WARNING  
> The rules dictate that Jhin's first performance should have been in chapter 4. However, I believe this is where the story ends for those who are uncomfortable with depictions of murder and violence. And those are things that walk hand in hand with Jhin and will come in starting from the next piece. To everyone who does not wish to read further, thank you and good luck.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight at the abandoned Dancing Hall. You are invited. -Khada Jhin

How does one organize a performance that consists of indiscriminate murder? One invites the targets among the guests and closes the doors. Everyone invited is too proud or too curious to refuse. Why do people come to watch executions, or the way buildings are brought down by the giant claws of Piltover automatons? What beauty is there in ending life?  
He had been asked before – by the people who came as noblemen or slaves, engineers and lowly workers, and left as adoring fans. He has been asked by the people who would hold his hands in both of theirs and ask him where he finds inspiration. By the people who would later take up knives and guns and bring pointless ruin. He’s had to hunt down two, a young girl with bloodied hands – “I don’t understand! Didn’t I do everything right?”, and a man in his forties who was a husband and a father until he saw one performance and lost his sanity. Weak of heart. Waste of bullets.  
There will be four tonight. There are nights when he takes more, there are nights where he takes two or even one. But four is the usual number, distinct and characteristic, hard to forget.  
The performance is held in the most appropriate stage – the Empty Set, an old and abandoned stage that he has to clean meticulously hours before, charging the magical crystals in the chandeliers as Orianna holds him up, finding and breaking in loose boards and chasing away a family of mice, until from presentable the stage becomes The Stage worthy of performance.  
He waits in the middle of The Stage as the guests filter in.  
The first exhibit is a woman with two lives, two personalities, that lives as a faithful wife until the dark strikes and she goes out stealing from jewelers and catching alleyway cats. She deserves a single bullet that he fires from above like a judge, like an executioner, one bullet that strikes the brain then the heart. Which one did she put first? Where did she keep her stolen treasures, and where did she keep her daughter and husband?  
Jhin has chosen the location well. The shot continues to ring and echo in the air as he arranges the woman on a chair, dressed half in cheerful pinks and whites of her household attire, and half in the blacks and reds of the thief she becomes. He covers the lighter half with carnelias, throwing them artfully on her form and moving them all to one side. Positioning the chair so that the light only falls on that half, splitting her in two. He places a single black lotus in her head, where there is now a neat bullet hole, and leaves the bloody mess of the exit wound untouched and on display.  
There are murmurs of appreciation in the crowd. Jhin pointedly does not look at anyone, especially not at the doll that has not moved from her spot besides the stage since the beginning of the show. If from “has not moved” you can gather the deathly stillness of the body as the gears tick gently within.  
The second exhibit is a man, a dishonest gambler – what a joke! Jhin has yet to meet an honest gambler. It’s his mouth that produces the bluffs and raises the stakes, not the hands that shuffle. Ah-ah-ah, one must choose his target with care. The shot takes off most of his lower jaw, and as Jhin approaches to inspect, he notes with satisfaction that Orianna’s adjustments to the scope has made his aim better than ever. Even the teeth in the skull are untouched, yet the lower jaw is ripped off its hinges. Jhin arranges the gambler holding his own jaw in outstretched hands, as if offering it to the world. He takes out a wreath of thorns prepared for the man, and rips it to strands, positioning them carefully as if stretching between his jaw and his empty throat. Nothing else is needed.  
The twin shots both continue ringing, a gentle low hum and a whining grind. Orianna tilts her head, listening, more enthralled by the music than she is by the visual.  
The crowd applauds, shifting between the two exhibits, drinking them in. His next target has paid for his own demise. Jhin does so love a suicide.  
The man shakes his hand and puts on a brave face, marching towards his own execution. Thinking himself clever and poetic, he outstretches the hands that had killed his wife in a fit of drunken hysteria. But it was not the hands that committed the crime, it was the empty heart. Jhin takes him aim carefully, as the man has so helpfully arranged a target over his chest. His smile fades as he understands it is not his hands Jhin means to strike, but what he hides behind them.  
The third shot is almost a culmination. There is enough blood now to paint, and it is with that paint that Jhin draws an elaborate target on his clothing, covering the entirety of his chest around the wound.  
The fourth shot rings out without warning, aimed at Jhin’s own head. He would indeed like to die like this, having proven his worth through his craft, through being remembered becoming immortal. The fourth shot does not reach its target, as red beams and supports of a magical shield shimmer into the air with the now familiar whirr of clockwork. Orianna’s weapon hangs at his side, spinning wildly in place as everyone turns their heads towards the overhead balcony. Jhin stares down the bullet, quite literally, until it falls uselessly to the floor, all momentum lost to the shield.  
\- My Lady, do you mind?  
\- Too high. Too far. Your gun.  
\- Do you mind holding him in place for me?  
\- Too high.  
\- Do you require a boost?  
Jhin bows, spreading his hands and bending his spine. After a second of pause, Orianna takes a running start, bronze heels clicking on the old marble floor, and with two sharp stings of pain when she steps on an arm and a shoulder, launches herself onto the chandelier that swings perilously and allows the doll to dance through the air. She is close enough to the unfortunate sniper for the ball to launch towards him, for the field to grab him, drag towards the balcony railing and hold in place. A Blood Moon mask is covering his face – a disguise, or is he truly a fanatic? Jhin picks up the bullet and looks it over. Snaps off the covering and elongating plate on one of his own bullets, made for when he transforms Whisper into thunder.  
\- Sixty five.  
\- More than enough, dear.  
Jhin knows how to impress, and among the deathly silence unfolds Whisper into the siege-sized sniper rifle, setting it comfortably on his shoulder. He holds up the bullet that was meant for him, now encased in silver on top of its own red.  
\- Twenty six.  
\- Ladies and gentlemen, today the bullet that was meant to interrupt my great work is the thing that continues it.  
\- Fifteen.  
Jhin exhales.  
\- May you bloom in this carnage, like a flower at rising dawn.  
The shot is deafening, overturning the previous three in magnificence, and entering their shuddering rhythm as the final note, the drum. The bullet rips through the assassin’s chest, the hole so wide it’s completely see-through even from two stories below.  
\- A single red rose.  
He throws the flower upwards. It never would have reached the chandelier, yet Orianna’s spheric monstrosity of hextech beauty catches it in a supporting field and places carefully into the ripped open chest. The red glow fades, and the doll’s blue eyes turn towards Jhin.  
\- Down, if you please.  
He puts away the gun as Orianna tips from the side of the chandelier, folds in two and catches herself on the edge, then after a swing that brings her close, drops neatly with a clang of bronze in front of him, between the other exhibits.  
The applause is deafening. None in the audience moved while there was an attempt at the life of their beloved and respected artist. None had left, and now there is furious clapping and cheering among the slowly dissipating sounds of echoing gunshots.  
\- As you have seen today, my dear audience, - Jhin starts, taking Orianna’s hand and setting her to spin in place while he walks among his creations, - there is beauty to be found in every cruelty, and it is my duty to show it to the world, to show it the appreciation it deserves. Silence does not bring remorse or answers, silence is my greatest enemy, as ART must be heard. I hope today’s performance proved it. Thank you. Now, as it is no more a performance, merely an exhibition, the artist will take a bow and become no more than your guide in this small world we have constructed together. My name is Khada Jhin, and all I have permitted to this performance today may seek me out if you would like me to bring someone beauty in death.  
He stops Orianna’s spinning gently, letting the hand she grabs pass over her head one, two, three, four times, and when she stops and clangs on the floor the leg she had been holding up, the applause starts over again, the audience throwing at them jewels and coins, trinkets and flowers. Orianna’s ball shrugs off something that lands directly on him, completing the image of a small disgruntled animal.  
Jhin catches a rose and deftly puts it into Orianna’s crown of hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I was not too distasteful or garish.


	6. Gallery - chapter 1




	7. Gallery - chapter 2




	8. Gallery - chapter 3




	9. Gallery - chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OPTIONAL  
> I have wanted to provide visual aid for the work. Chalk it all up to vision and to the way this story makes me feel. None of Jhin's ART will be making an appearance, as I would like you to picture the pieces for yourself.

**Author's Note:**

> A little something i have wanted to write for a while.


End file.
